The Cove by Ron Rash Page A

Hank admitted, his voice soft too.
    Hank came inside. He stepped lightly across the puncheon floor. Laurel took the cornbread from the stove and quietly closed the metal door. She set the bread basket and yellowware bowl on the table and poured spring water in the cups. Only when the song ended did she go to the bedroom door and tell Walter the meal was ready.
    â€œYou look a sight more alive than when we hauled you in,” Hank said when Walter joined them. “So you’ll be heading on, I guess.”
    Walter nodded as Laurel passed him the bowl.
    â€œThere’s plenty so don’t be shy about taking what you want. We much admired your music earlier, didn’t we, Hank?”
    â€œIt was pleasing enough,” Hank said.
    â€œThat’s what you do, play music, to make a living I mean?” Laurel asked.
    Walter nodded.
    â€œAnd you were on your way to New York to play music but something happened?”
    Walter nodded again.
    â€œIf you’d been robbed you’d not have that sixty dollars,” Laurel said, “but whatever happened, it caused you to get lost up here, right?”
    Walter nodded.
    â€œI guess I was wrong to take you for a tramp,” Hank said, and for the first time Laurel noticed a change in his tone. “There’s a lot I’d think you not able to do since you can’t talk, but your being able to make your music, people got to respect that.”
    They spoke little for a few minutes, Walter again taking only food he was offered, something that she could tell Hank noticed too. After they finished, Walter walked over to the bookshelf and pointed at the yellow pencils, waiting until Laurel nodded that it was okay. He came back to the table and took the note from his pocket and turned it over.
    â€œI thought you couldn’t read nor write?” Laurel said.
    Walter drew two vertical lines, across them six slashes. He studied his drawing a moment and flipped the pencil stem and shortened the slashes with the eraser, brushed off the specks of rubber.
    â€œYou want to know where the railroad is?” Hank asked.
    Walter nodded.
    â€œIt’s in Mars Hill,” Hank said. “You want to go there so you can get on to New York, I reckon?”
    Walter nodded.
    â€œIt’s a three-mile walk from here,” Laura said. “That’s likely too far after what you’ve been through, but Slidell goes every Saturday. He lives up at the notch. He’s got a horse and wagon and he’d not mind taking you.”
    â€œMaybe Walter don’t want to wait till Saturday,” Hank said.
    â€œWe don’t mind you staying on a few days,” Laurel said. “You could help Hank stob the fences up, make you some extra money for your trip.”
    â€œYou think I might have the least little say in this,” Hank interrupted.
    â€œHe’ll lose his way without someone going with him, especially since he can’t read nor talk,” Laurel said. “Besides, you’re the one always says it’s shameful that a man of Slidell’s years is over here helping most every day. Walter and you could get that fence near raised by Saturday.”
    â€œSister, you don’t even know if he’s ever done farmwork.”
    â€œAsk him then.”
    â€œHave you?” Hank asked.
    Walter paused, then nodded.
    â€œWhat about all them stings?” Hank said to Laurel. “A minute ago you was fretting he’d be too puny to walk three miles.”
    â€œIf he gets to feeling puny he can stop and rest.”
    Hank looked at her steadily for a few moments, like he saw something he’d not taken much notice of before. He raised his nubbed wrist and showed Walter where the skin had been knit into a crisscross of stitches.
    â€œThere’s things I can’t do by my ownself, so I’ll put a dollar a day in your pocket if it proves out you know what you’re doing. That’ll give you four dollars to add to what